


Myrkur og Ljós

by Pennate_Marauder



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Scandinavian Mythology & Lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennate_Marauder/pseuds/Pennate_Marauder
Summary: Christine Daaé is member of the renowned Opera Populaire's corps de ballet, peacefully lingering in the background of each performance ever since the beginning of her career. When a mysterious accident befalls the prima donna, the true extent of her newly-unlocked talent is revealed. With a captivating voice and entrancing performances, many consider her to be graced by heaven itself. However, the certain observant few have begun to notice a disturbinglyunearthlyquality unfurling within the soprano — one which appears to grow more prevalent with every performance.---A retelling of the classicPhantom of the Operawith elements derived from Scandinavian folklore.





	Myrkur og Ljós

— **1872** —

The storm had been relentless for nearly six days. The bite of January was brisk enough for snow, yet despite this fact, the freezing rain was unwilling to yield to the proper truths of nature and stubbornly drenched the poor village all the same. This unruly tempest seemed suspicious to many, for the people had not witnessed such a storm in the heart of winter that could ever hope to rival it, whispers commonly exchanged concerning its origin. Some claimed righteously that the rains served as a punishment enacted upon the French countryside, meant as repayment for the depravity of their community. 

Others, the softest murmurs conveyed by the superstitious and the secretive, believed that the misfortune was a result of some provocation against the faeries.

In Gustave Daaé’s mind, the rain remained a distant concern amid the turmoil within him. He was a man never meant to die — not for many years past the expectancy of his fellows. Regardless, the heavy darkness of Death’s wings were steadily folding around him and there was no remedy or plea, mortal or immortal, which could prevent the reaper from collecting his Due. 

_Yes, it would be any day now..._

Through the heavy curtain of the storm, a weak glow cast a feeble beacon into the consuming night through a window not quite hidden from sight. Any pedestrian traversing the dusty paths of the village — though such a journey was ludicrous, given the conditions — might be able to tilt his head just so to peer into the small cottage within which the Monsieur and his young daughter were staying until the weather had run its course and the roads deemed safe for their horse once more. 

Past the glass decorated with constellations of rain droplets, the harsh tempo of the storm contrasted sharply with the slow, agonizingly deliberate scratch of a pen against parchment in a battle for retaining legibility. Blots of ink bloomed in the nib’s wake between the words, nefarious weeds which betrayed the failing health of their author, as he was forced to occasionally pause and collect his bearings. One hand clutched a sweat-damp blanket in a white-knuckled grip, keeping the fabric securely about his trembling shoulders. In the flickering light cast by the candle in front of him on the desk, his face — once warm and lively with old wisdom contained within a youthful visage — was now set deep in stark, skeletal shadows. Pain dimmed his eyes into a glassy sheen, dull and unfocused as the iron fever burning mercilessly through his veins slowly consumed him.

A heavy, exhausted breath escaped the violinist's lips as Daaé finally ended the torment of his task with one last stroke of the pen, allowing it to slip from his fingers and fall onto the desk with a rap. Scanning over the letter he had composed, he ensured there were no errors which could endanger his intended recipient's comprehension of its contents. When all was deemed well and the ink safely dried, he folded the parchment and slipped it into an envelope, sealing it securely and setting it upon the desk, ready for delivery. Within, he begged one Madame Antoinette Giry to look after his daughter and keep her safe once the fever claimed him at last. She had served as an aid to many of his kind over the years; she was one mortal who could be trusted to keep her promises and her loyalty. His Christine would be safe and well looked-after under her care. 

Coughing, his energy waning from dedicating his attention so fiercely and painstakingly to this letter, Daaé fished a stained handkerchief from his pocket beneath the blanket's feeble comfort, pressing it to his lips as droplets of scarlet were added to the others collected amid the stark white fabric. His body was attempting to battle the iron that had invaded it, but to little avail. There would be no recovering from this injury and he was slowly succumbing to this inevitable fate. 

" _Pappa_?"

A quiet voice, thick with sleep, sounded from the bed across the room. 

" _Jag mår bra, min dotter_ ," he murmured quietly, quickly stashing the offending bloodstained handkerchief from viewed. "I am fine, my daughter. Rest. I suspect the rain is soon to cease." 

Christine shifted amid the blankets for a moment, fighting sleep, before she offered him one of her glowing smiles through a quiet blue gaze fogged with dreams. " _Jag älskar dig_. I love you." 

Before Daaé could reply, his daughter had already been claimed once more by sleep, her eyes fluttering shut and face peaceful in the candlelight. He felt a painful jolt in his chest, unshed tears stinging at his eyes before he turned to the window, forcing himself to look away from his child and the thoughts of how bitterly, painfully alone she would be in his absence. He cleared his throat roughly, blinking the tears back as he placed his fingertips against the freezing glass. Once, the droplets might have responded joyfully to his touch, dancing and shimmering with delightful merriment, but now they laid still and cold and shivering with sorrow. 

Unable to bear thought of the grief which surrounded him, he leaned forward and extinguished the candle with a puff of air, plunging the little room into darkness, blissfully blind to it all.

"Keep her safe," he whispered to the night, through the pain in his heart and the endless burning beneath his skin. "I beg of you. Keep her safe."

\---------------------

The next morning, the rain had finally ended, and Gustave Daae was dead.

Christine was overcome with grief, inconsolable at first before falling silent and speaking not a word to anyone, and the world seemed to share in her mourning as well. Snow blanketed the ground, the weather having finally submitted to the winter that rightfully commanded it, and all seemed deadly still. The streams and rivers had frozen overnight, water that had once fallen smoothly over drops and edges now jagged and lifeless. Where droplets of rainwater had decorated the windows, sprawling spiderwebs of frost now blanketed the glass and fogged view of the outside world. The skies reminded dark and stormy, though nothing fell from the heavens save for a few occasional flakes of snow. 

The man with whom the Daaes had been lodging with for the duration of the tempest, Monsieur Gerald Chevrolet, discovered the envelope addressed to some woman in Paris, as well as an additional request to take his daughter into the city if the old man was unable to himself. While this lodger may not have been so eager to spend half a day guiding horses along the frozen roads with a young girl he hardly knew in tow, the prospect became more enticing with the money the waif’s father had left behind along with his plea. 

Thus, with what meager belongings the pair had possessed and the corpse carefully hidden from the grief-stricken girl in the storage compartment of the plain carriage they had arrived within, Chevrolet set off immediately toward Paris with Christine. The young girl watched the transformed countryside pass with an empty gaze, the warmth which had once dwelled within them extinguished and drowned in broken grief that far surpassed her years. 

The journey passed in silence, one respected by both Chevrolet and the motionless landscape that crept by with each crunch of the horse’s hooves against the packed snow blanketing the road. It seemed a relief to the farmer once the sound of many sets of hooves filled the air with a constant buzz of sound, the countryside abandoned at last for the bustling world of the city. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the late Daaé’s directions and, assured of his route, delivered the young girl to the steps of the prestigious Opera Populaire with an air of tired relief. 

_My sympathies to the petite fille, but I am glad to wash my hands of this mess at last. Having a man die in our very house — the wife will be in a state for days. Of that I am certain._

A woman emerged from the grand front doors, dressed in black and possessing a countenance so severe that the simple farmer was taken aback for a moment, unknowingly shrinking back a step. Her steely gaze softened a fraction to take in the miserable Christine, though this was the extent of any amiable note she wished to convey. 

“Inside, child,” she spoke, the thin fingers of one hand gesturing in the direction of the entrance. “My daughter, Meg, will assist you with your things and show you to your quarters for the time being. I must talk with the gentleman.” 

Christine, displaying the same intimidation that Chevrolet had, if significantly muted in her broken state, obediently retrieved what bags she could carry and moved quickly up the stone steps, the hem of her cloak stirring loose snowflakes into a small flurry in her wake. The pair of adults watched her departure until she had vanished from sight, leaving the poor Chevrolet alone beneath the severe woman’s penetrating stare. 

“I have a letter, madame,” he managed, extending the envelope to her and drawing his hand back the moment the item slipped from his fingers. “Addressed to a Madame Giry. Monsieur Daaé–”

“I am aware of what has occurred,” she interrupted abruptly, effectively bringing his words to a startled halt. “I am Madame Giry.” She slipped the envelope into her dress without another glance, never releasing him from her scrutiny. A pause followed her proclamation, a few stray flakes of snow decorating her dress, unnoticed. 

“Let us discuss what is to be done with the body.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first attempt at a multi-chapter work, friends. What started as a passing thought has developed into a notebook beginning to fill with the rough draft that is the story you're now reading. I have rare hopes that I will retain the motivation to give this work some steady momentum, but I won't plan a concrete schedule for updates _just_ yet. 
> 
> While I am doing research for this fic, I will not swear on my life that the information or references here are 100% accurate. I'm armed solely with Google — I possess little to no experience studying the languages, legends, or cultures featured within. I'll be damned if I don't give the challenge a go, though! 
> 
> tldr; Apologies in advance for any inaccurates; feel free to correct me whenever needed, if you wish.
> 
> The title, _Myrkur og Ljós_ translates to "Darkness and Light" in Icelandic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Comments are golden and, of course, always appreciated.


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